for you i'll strip my secrets bare
by images-in-words
Summary: When Santana disappears after high school graduation, Rachel becomes determined to find out why, and makes it her mission to bring her home no matter what. (AU)
1. Chapter 1

**for you i'll strip my secrets bare (just promise me you'll still be there)**

 _ **chapter one**_

 **SANTANA**

There are moments in your life you'll remember later, moments you can look back and define as points in time when everything changed. A decision made, or not made. A look forward, or a look behind. Trust extended, or denied. Small, yet incredibly impactful choices, like the proverbial wind that blows past you to move a butterfly's wings a continent away.

It was that kind of moment that brought me to a crossroads I honestly never expected to face: the moment when the person I least expected ever to see walked into a dark room that reeked of regret and cheap liquor, looked up at me with her hand extended and said, "Stop. You deserve better than this."

The summer after I graduated from McKinley High School was, to greatly understate things, kind of rough. Life blindsided me and slapped me upside the head so hard that I couldn't see for the stars that spun around it. First, I confessed to my girlfriend that I'd long harbored feelings for another girl we both knew very well, and she broke up with me. Then I came out to my parents, got kicked out of the house for it, and on top of that, lost my scholarship when my parents accused my cheerleading coach, who'd arranged the full ride, of running a locker room that, in their words, "encouraged sexual deviancy." In other words, it was a perfect storm of anger, hurt, disappointment and complete terror.

So, to sum up: right after having the best year of my high school life - winning national championships with both the cheerleading squad and the glee club, graduating in the top ten in my class, finally accepting my sexuality and falling in love - I was suddenly without my parents, my girlfriend, and my home. At least they let me keep my car and all the cash in my bank accounts - though not without the understanding that once said cash was gone, there would be no more coming from them. So hey, they weren't _completely_ heartless!

I'm sure that's what they told themselves to get to sleep at night, anyway.

Life lesson #1: when the worst thing you can imagine actually happens and your greatest fear has been realized, you still have to go on somehow - no matter how terrified you actually are. This includes finding yourself living in your car, with no cell phone (because your parents have removed you from their plan), and all your worldly possessions crammed into the trunk and back seat of said car. Could I have asked to stay with a friend's family? Yeah, I could've, but I was so shocked and stunned by everything that had happened that I wasn't thinking clearly. I felt deeply ashamed, embarrassed and humiliated, and I guess I thought I was trying to be strong and preserve my dignity somehow by trying to hide the truth from all the people who cared about me.

So I wrote a letter, made copies of it at the Lima Public Library, and sent it out to everybody in the Glee Club, spinning a bullshit story about how this awesome cheerleading scholarship I'd gotten required me to leave early for Louisville, Kentucky, where I was looking forward with great excitement to spending the next four years waving my pom-poms thanks to the benevolence of Coach Sue, while hopefully _not_ acquiring one of those syrupy sweet Southern accents and ending up sounding like a Latina Paula Deen or whatever.

That was how I said goodbye to everyone I loved. In a letter, without a return address, without even telling them not to try calling me because I no longer had a working phone number.

I figured they'd find that out soon enough.

Yeah, I'm not proud of it. I'm not proud of running away and leaving all those people behind and in the dark, with no way to contact or find me. Grief does funny things to people, though. All I can say, looking back, is that I was so lost in it that all I wanted to do was put as much distance as I could between myself and the source of my pain – which happened to be my own former home. And yet, that only meant getting as far as the "bad neighborhood" I'd claimed as my own many times, even though I lived all my life in a place that was its exact opposite.

And that, boys and girls, is how Santana Lopez became "Lolita the Candy Striper," living in a a tiny one-bedroom apartment in Lima Heights Adjacent, working the pole at a sleazy little hole in the wall at the very edge of town.

 **RACHEL**

On the day I was set to leave with my fathers for New York City to get a look at the dorms and the campus of the New York Academy of Dramatic Arts, a.k.a. NYADA, a letter with no return address on the envelope arrived in the mail. I looked at it curiously, not recognizing the handwriting in which my name and address had been written across the front.

 _What is this?_ I wondered. Sadly, letter writing is a lost art these days, and although my first inclination was to be excited, a strange sense of foreboding quickly settled in the pit of my stomach as I opened the mysterious envelope and unfolded the piece of notebook paper inside.

 _Dear losers,_ it began. Instantly I knew this to be Santana's work. We had all come to know, after all, how she loved to use seemingly derogatory descriptors as terms of affection.

 _I'm sorry to be telling you this in something as lame as a hand-written letter and not something as cool as a text message or Facebook post – no, wait, those are lame too, so no, I'm not actually sorry for that. I_ _am_ _sorry, however, that I'm not able to deliver this news in person, because it's the least you deserve. And by that I mean, really, the least_ _is_ _what you deserve. Anyway, you know that super awesome cheerleading scholarship that Sue somehow arranged (i.e., bribed and/or threatened someone to get) for me? Well, apparently I kinda forgot that it requires me to leave early for beautiful downtown (or uptown, I don't really know) Kentucky, home of bluegrass and bourbon, to get settled and meet the other girls on the squad. Yes, it's a new chapter in the life of Santana Lopez, one that seems strangely similar to the previous chapter: four years of waving my rambunctious pom-poms pretending to be excited about the grunting, groaning efforts of a bunch of brainless, moronic jocks, alongside a bunch of catty, backstabbing, lame-ass bitches, under the guidance of another sadistic, borderline psychotic coach who loves nothing more than to torture our bodies and tear down our oh so fragile self-esteem. (_ _Why_ _did I agree to this again? Oh, yeah – it makes college free!) Anyway, although I wish I could see all of you before I go, there's just no time for me to squeeze you in before I head down the road to Hick City, U.S.A., so this is goodbye for now, and well...I'll see you when I see you._

 _All right - later, bitches! I'm out._

 _Love and breadsticks and all that other sappy shit,_

 _Santana._

 _P.S: Good luck getting to Broadway, Hobbit. Break a leg. No, really. I mean, fall down a flight of stairs or something and_ _actually_ _break a leg. Pain builds character, they say - and years from now, when you land the role of "girl who falls down a flight of stairs and breaks a leg" in a Lifetime TV movie, you'll be able to draw on the experience to bring depth and nuance to your performance._

I frowned as I read this. What kind of cheerleading scholarship required its recipients to arrive on campus earlier than every other student at the school? And why hadn't she at least called us to break the news? I understood that she wasn't the type to encourage or enjoy a tearful round of goodbyes, but still...something didn't feel right about this to me. As I've said before, I'm just a little bit psychic, and the energy that came off the page in my hand carried all sorts of negative vibrations.

When I called Quinn to ask if she had received a similar letter, she told me that she had actually received the exact same letter, but only a copy of it. Santana had actually photocopied the handwritten page I'd gotten. She was as puzzled as I was, and a flurry of texts and calls confirmed that all the other members of the glee club had received photocopies of the letter as well. Equally curious, mine was the only one to include a post script.

More troubling was the discovery that calls to Santana's cell phone were being answered only by a recorded message stating _this number is no longer in service_. A frantic call to Brittany, whom I thought would be the person most likely to know what was going on with Santana, yielded nothing other than the shocking fact that the two of them had broken up not too long after graduation. She wouldn't tell me anything about the circumstances that precipitated the end of their seemingly blissful relationship, though, citing a desire keep those details private. Which, while understandable, was not exactly helpful.

I wanted desperately to find out what was happening, but there was no time. We had a flight to New York booked and a hotel room reserved, and neither was refundable. I felt my heart being pulled in two directions, between the recent past and the inevitable future, and though it pained me greatly, I reluctantly left instructions with the glee club members to inform me if they learned of any new developments in the strange case of Santana Lopez. I departed for the city of my dreams with the sense that something was terribly, terribly wrong still churning within me.


	2. Chapter 2

**for you i'll strip my secrets bare (just promise me you'll still be there)**

 _ **chapter two**_

 **RACHEL**

The flight to New York was sad and quiet, and though my fathers tried to draw me out, I found that I couldn't bring myself to say anything about what was going on. Perhaps it was out of some kind of foolish respect for Santana's privacy, or perhaps it was because I wanted to be the one to solve the mystery; but whatever the reason, I remained silent about my dilemma, shrinking into myself, getting lost in my thoughts.

It wasn't the first time, of course, that I'd ever gotten caught up in thoughts about Santana. She was beautiful, smart, funny, and very talented. She was also mercurial, volatile, and not always entirely in control of her emotions, which she kept bottled up so tightly that she would inevitably explode, either in tears or in anger. She was her own best friend and her own worst enemy, yin and yang in one complex, mysterious, and darkly attractive package. To tell the truth, she had completely fascinated and intrigued me since the very first time I saw her. Being in her presence was being in the presence of a bright spark, an ember that could instantly become an inferno at any given moment. Her darkness was frightening, but her light - when she let it shine - was brighter, more captivating, than anything I'd ever seen.

To put it another way: yes, I had feelings for her. So did more than a few of the girls in our school, and many of the guys. She was one of those unattainable girls, the type who could have anyone she wanted - and I was certain that I wasn't someone she would ever want. No, she wanted Brittany, who was tall, blonde and gorgeous, blessed with physical gifts that I could never dream of possessing. There was no way I would ever be able to compete with a girl like Brittany, so when she and Santana finally got together, it didn't come as a surprise to anyone. The only surprise was that it took them as long as it did.

I was truly happy for them, although I'll admit that I harbored some jealousy towards Brittany. Short, unsatisfying relationships with the likes of fellow Glee Club members Finn Hudson and Noah "Puck" Puckerman had helped me to realize the truth of my own sexuality; they were nice enough, sweet and attentive, but honestly, I never felt very much of anything whenever I engaged in activities of the intimate variety with either of them. And then, even as I nursed my secret longing for Santana, I became involved in my first relationship with another girl.

No one knew about it, of course, because Kitty Wilde – another short, sexy cheerleader (think I have a type?), as pale as Santana was dark - and I dated in secret, at her insistence. It was actually quite nice for the most part; we had an easy chemistry and were very compatible physically. She was my first, and it was a wonderful, beautiful, completely satisfying experience. Sadly, things went sour when I told her I wanted us to come out and be a real couple. She demurred, stating that she wasn't really sure of what she wanted, that maybe she'd just been experimenting, merely satisfying a Sapphic curiosity, and that was the end of that. A week or so later, she began dating Artie Abrams – yet another fellow Glee Clubber - and once again I was cast in the role of happy, supportive friend, while my heart crumbled.

Again.

So I masked my true feelings, hiding the hurt and disappointment and continued desire for the girl I really wanted but couldn't have, and threw myself into the things I knew would never disappoint me – school work, Glee performances, and my secret passion for songwriting. I say "secret" because I felt that revealing it to others would do nothing but open me up to the kind of scorn and derision I had already experienced quite enough in my short but socially difficult high school career. It was one thing to be a singer, to interpret another's words through melody and phrasing; but quite another to be the songwriter, to create the words and music and then interpret on top of it all. However, it is axiomatic that songwriting is all about experience, and I imagined that others would simply scoff and sneer and say, _What the hell does Rachel Berry know about life? She probably just writes about headbands and the joys of the vegan lifestyle._

The truth of it, of course, was far more complex and painful; but it wasn't as if my peers were all that open to understanding it. After all, my songwriting passion had grown out of my passion for a certain dark-eyed, raven-haired, singing, dancing cheerleader, and wouldn't _that_ make for interesting conversation in the cafeteria and the hallways?

No, it had to remain secret. For my survival and my sanity.

And now it appeared that something was dangerously amiss with Santana. The apprehension gnawed at my insides. I couldn't sleep or eat on the plane. I hated the looks of worried concern on my fathers' faces as they tried to puzzle out what was wrong with me, so I assured them that I was just nervous about the visit to NYADA, that everything was just fine and there was no reason for alarm. But I resolved to do everything I could to find out more about what was happening with Santana as soon as we were settled in New York. There was no way my conscience would allow me to do otherwise.

 **SANTANA**

Those were hard days, I'm not gonna lie. That whole thing about "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger"? It was seriously put to the test, and then some. I'd gone from having a family and a support system of friends who really cared about me to being completely, totally alone, and to say it was scary would be a major understatement. The mask of untouchable invulnerability I'd worn in high school was the only weapon I knew to use out in the big, bad world, and I could only hope it would be a fraction as effective there as it had been in the hallways of McKinley High.

Affecting my best tough girl attitude, I walked into the doors of the seedy little club and instantly had to fight back the urge to pinch my nose closed. I'd never been anywhere so nasty in my life. It was dark and dirty and it smelled like the loss of all the hope in the world. Which, I guess, made me feel like I'd fit right in.

The owner, a walking stereotype right out of a bad sitcom version of an adult movie, lurched out of his office a few minutes after the bartender told him he had a potential employee waiting to ask about the job. I figured it would be waitressing, assistant bartendering, that kind of easy shit, where you could make a lot of tips off a wink and a smile and maybe some dirty words thrown around here and there.

Mr. Comb-over (not his real name, but I refuse to give him the dignity of a real name here) looked me up and down and I felt my skin crawl under his leering gaze. His eyes were cold and dull and beady, and there was something not altogether human in them.

"How old are you, honey?" His voice was as thin and reedy as his body. I swear, the guy looked like he'd eaten maybe once in the last three months. The pasty skin of his forehead shone with a thin sheen of sweat. He stuck his hand out for me to shake, and somehow I fought down the impulse to cringe when I took it in mine and felt how clammy it was.

 _Old enough to know better than to tell you my real age, you creep._

"Just turned eighteen a few weeks ago, sir," I said, smiling as pleasantly as I could in the midst of this black velvet poster vision of hell.

"You got ID?"

"Of course. Here you go," I replied sweetly, producing the requested (and completely fake) ID from my purse. "Rosario Cruz. Just graduated high school, and now I'm out to seek my fortune in the world."

He raised a sweaty eyebrow. "Oh, really? Here?" He didn't bother to keep the amusement out of his voice. "Didn't have the grades for college? Maybe you partied too much, and studied too little? That's what usually happens with girls like you."

"I just spent my whole life in school. Don't really feel like jumping right back into it now. Maybe in a year or so. I just want to experience life a little bit before then."

"So why work here? Couldn't get an office job?"

"I can make more money in a week here than I can getting coffee and fetching some asshole's dry cleaning in a boring 9 to 5 office. Besides, other females tend to get jealous of all _this._ " I smirked, gesturing to my body, encased as it was in a low cut top and dangerously short skirt. The smirk and the gesture said what my mouth didn't: _Yeah, I'm hot and I know it._

"You got a point there, kid. You're a smart one. Isn't she a smart one, Dex?" he chuckled, addressing the bartender, who just nodded as he poured another one for the drunk slumped over the bar.

He smiled a greasy smile at me, and it took everything I had to not look away. _Just stand here and smile back,_ I told myself.

"Smart and beautiful. That's how I like my girls," he said, then turned around and bellowed into the place's dim, smoky interior. "Jennie! Come out here, babe. I got someone I want you to meet. She's gonna be working with you, as of now."

A tall redhead emerged after a few seconds from the shadowy depths. She wore a tight black dress and the highest heels I'd ever seen. Her steps were a little wobbly, and I couldn't tell if it was because of the shoes, or because she was maybe a little drunk. Or maybe it was both.

"Hey, boss," she said, sounding bored and tired. She looked me up and down with a smile that was as obviously fake as her boobs, which were all out of proportion to the rest of her skinny body. "Who's this?"

"This is Rosario," he answered, pointing at me with his thumb. "She's the newest addition to our stable of world-class entertainers. Take her in the back, show her the ropes, where everything is, tell her the rules and so on. I've got business to take care of."

 _Wait, what? 'Entertainers?' What the fuck does that mean?_

"Okay. No problem," Jennie's face took on a more sober expression. I have to admit, she took her job seriously. "You come with me and I'll get you all set up."

"And with that, ladies, my work here is done," Mr. Comb-over said, and then he limped back into his office, closing the door behind him with a solid _thunk._

I'd been trying to keep my expression carefully neutral despite the emotions churning inside me, but my curiosity over the boss' limp somehow showed through, because Jennie whispered lowly in my ear: "Car accident. Last year. Bad. Really messed up his back and knees. He doesn't like to talk about it, so don't ask."

"Um, okay. Good to know," I say, unable to think of a better reply.

Jennie took my hand, tugged me forward. My feet didn't really want to move, but she was stronger than her wiry frame would suggest. "Come on, sweetie. Let's go in the back, and I'll tell you everything you need to know to be successful here. There aren't many rules, but what there are, you need to follow. Boss doesn't ask for much more than that. Keep clean, show up on time, be nice to the customers, and you should be okay."

I blinked at her in disbelief then, though she didn't notice, probably already thinking of her next drink. _Be okay?_ I thought, as I caught sight of the raised stages at the back of the room, the hot multi-colored lights above them, and the shiny silver poles in the center of each one.

 _Not fucking likely._


	3. Chapter 3

**for you i'll strip my secrets bare (just promise me you'll still be there)**

 _ **chapter three**_

 **RACHEL**

The summer passed slowly. I spent time with the other Glee Club members, but Santana's absence was like an enormous, gaping void that mere talk about her couldn't hope to fill. My worries about her were shared, but no one could even begin to figure out where she might be. Attempts to speak to Santana's parents were fruitless, rebuffed with slammed doors and unanswered phones. Brittany continued to refuse to speak about what had caused her break-up with Santana, and by the time we were all preparing to leave for our respective institutions of higher learning, even Sue Sylvester admitted that she was in the dark as well. I was surprised by the hurt and concern in the coach's voice when I spoke with her, and slightly astonished when she made me promise to tell her immediately if I heard anything. The fervor with which she promised to do the same was as palpable as anything I'd ever heard from her, and I knew it was real and completely sincere.

The Glee farewell party, which was attended by our beloved mentor, Mr. Schuester, and his wife, the guidance counselor Ms. Pillsbury – both of whom had helped Santana in ways large and small throughout our tenure at McKinley – was a muted, somber event without our friend and former teammate there, and we all parted with a vow to share any information we might come across as we said our goodbyes. I had never seen Brittany look so sad, or heard her so quiet. She looked as lost and broken as the rest of us felt, and my heart broke to see it.

All too soon, my first semester at NYADA began without any new word on what had happened to Santana. I threw myself into my classes, trying to force thoughts of the missing Cheerio to the back of my mind. Yet every time I sang, I didn't see the instructor or the audience in front of me - no, it was Santana's beautiful face, glowing with laughter, her dark eyes crinkling in delight, that I saw, spurring each performance to heights of pure, raw emotion that I'd never come close to reaching before. Many a song was ended with tears flowing freely down my cheeks, and my classmates shaking their heads in awe. Normally, I would have basked in their praise, and that of my instructor, but knowing that it was Santana's disappearance that was the cause made me shy away from it. The unintentionally humorous upshot of that was hearing myself described as "humble" for the first time in my life, and I had no doubt that Santana would have laughed quite heartily at that.

I was trying to enjoy my new life at NYADA, I really was; but so many of the days felt gray and dreary, drained of the color and vibrancy the city had always held for me before. I made a few new friends – more acquaintances, really – but each connection felt somehow like a betrayal of the girl whose memory made my heart feel as though the life was slowly being squeezed from it. Instead of going out and exploring the city as I'd always dreamed of doing, I mostly stayed in my dorm room, brooding and crying, venturing out only for classes, meals, and practice time in the acting, voice and dance studios. My grades were excellent, my performances consistently superb, and my talent was being noticed by the insular school community, but I found it difficult to take much pleasure in any of it.

And then the letter came. There was no return address, but I knew _who_ had sent it, even if I didn't know from _where_.

My breath hitched as I stared at the beautiful – elegant, even – handwriting on the envelope. My dorm building and room numbers were missing from the address, and there was no return address, but I knew those graceful, looping letters could only have been scribed by one person.

 _Santana._

I found myself whispering, almost chanting her name over and over again as I abandoned the rest of the mail in my mailbox, cradling the letter against my pounding heart while the elevator carried me up to my floor. My fingers trembled as they fished for the keys in the pocket of my jeans, shaking all the more when I slid the room key into the lock on my door.

Flipping the light on as I entered the room, I tossed my keys on the desk, then sat on my bed, reverently laying the letter down in front of me. Not for the first time, I silently thanked my lucky stars once again for the small size of my incoming freshman class, which had enabled me to get a dorm room without a roommate. The solitude was all that had enabled me to get through things at school so far; I imagined that a roommate would not have reacted well to the dark and gloomy mood I'd brought with me from Lima.

I stood and went over to my desk to retrieve the silver letter opener Kurt had given me as a farewell gift – he'd said I would need it frequently to deal with all the letters I would no doubt be receiving from everyone in Glee Club – and tried again to still the nerves causing my hand to tremble. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, willing myself to try and be strong for Santana's sake.

The sound of the paper envelope being cut open as I worked the shiny implement against it seemed incredibly loud in the silence of my room. I smiled at how fitting that was, given Santana's bold, brash personality – even her _letters_ were loud.

Once again, the letter was written on lined notebook paper, neatly folded. When I carefully unfolded it, I saw that she'd used purple ink this time, which I found to be a curious, yet completely Santana-like choice. She had a way of surprising me with even the smallest of details. For a few moments, I just stared with unfocused eyes at the flowing script without really reading it, not quite able to believe it was real. Finally, I had to shake my head just to clear it. Then I began to concentrate on letting the letters take shape into words, to see what Santana had taken the time to share with me.

I swallowed thickly as my heart began to pound once again, nearly dizzy with nervous excitement. I lowered myself onto the bed and began to read:

 _Dear Rachel -_

 _I'm writing to you – and you alone – because out of everyone in the Glee Club, it's you I care about the most. (Though I know it may not have always seemed that way.)_ _The truth is that you were always the best of us. Not only as a singer, but as a person. You were always the kindest, most caring person in the club, the heart as well as the soul of it, and you showed it every time you made sure you were there for anyone who ever needed help. Whether it was Finn with his dancing, Sugar with her vocals (I still can't believe that girl can actually sing now!), Kurt with all the crap he went through, Marley with her lack of self-confidence or Kitty with her general bitchiness, you always found a way to make each of us better, no matter what our problem was. And in doing that, you helped me, too._

 _Because watching you do all of that, day in and day out, made me want to be a better person too. Now of course I'll never be a saint or anything – I'm way too bad-ass for that – but your example inspired me to become a kinder, gentler person, one who learned to care about others, and I'll always be grateful to you for it._

 _That being said, I haven't gone and joined the Peace Corps or some such hippie shit – but yeah, I did split from Lima right after graduation, and as you may or may not know by now, it wasn't to go to the University of Lameyville – oops, sorry, Louisville (not sorry). I left because it was going to be too hard to say goodbye to all of you, to watch you all go off into your new lives while I'm still trying to figure out what the hell to do with mine. Yeah, I know it wasn't cool, and I'm sorry to be such a fucking coward, but there it is. Can't change it now, even if I wanted to._

 _As for where I am and what I'm doing – well, let's just say I'm trying to "find myself." Which means I don't want you or anyone else to try and find me, OK? I'm all right. Seriously. I just need time to figure some things out, and I can't do that with you and Quinn and Puck trying to be all Scooby and the gang, jumping into the Mystery Machine to solve the case. If I ever need help – real, honest to goodness help – I'll reach out to you. Promise._

 _In the meantime, you need to just go and become the star we all know you're destined to be. Work hard. Sing, dance and act your tiny little ass off. Blow everyone else at that school away on a daily basis like you did all of us at McKinley. I know you can do it. I'll be there with you in spirit, always – no matter where I might be or what I might be doing._

 _Love, your favorite hot bitch -_

 _Santana_

I clutched the letter against my chest then, as though somehow the paper could keep it from breaking, and lay myself down to cry, long and hard, for my lost friend. My body shook with the release of all the fear and worry I'd been carrying around; the force of it left me gasping for breath, unable to see through the torrent of tears raining from my eyes, down my face, onto the hand that still held the treasured - now crumpled – page. Once I was able to draw air into my lungs again, and somehow found the strength to wipe my face and eyes clear, I was filled with renewed determination to find Santana, no matter what, or how long, it took. The research I'd done on the Internet had shown me in grim detail the many fates a young girl could suffer out on the streets alone, wherever she might be. There was simply no way I would abandon Santana to any of them. In that moment, I knew that I would do anything to save her. _Anything._

"Hold on, Santana, please," I whispered, holding up the slightly mangled letter above my head, close to my face, as if it the ink and paper possessed the ability to hear me and then transmit my voice to her. "Just hold on. I promise I'll be there soon."


End file.
